Circe, as a novel, is many things at once. It is an epic story — much like the story from which it spawns, and it is a study of a woman's life — from unsteady, naïve beginning to confident, earned ending. It is not one without the other, but that circles us back around to the beginning — and Circe's place on the bookshelf has secured its rights of being called the great epic of Circe, goddess and sorceress.

"We are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide. To walk to the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive."

Miller has once again taken another character who appears as a side character in the greater stories of others, and developed several lifetimes' worth of history for this goddess. Circe is the daughter of the god Helios and the Oceanid nymph Perse and eldest child of this pair. She is sister to Aeëtes the keeper of the Golden Fleece, sister to Pasiphaë the wife of King Minos, aunt to Aeëtes' daughter Medea who brings Jason and the Argonauts to her island, aunt to Pasiphaë's offspring the Minotaur, and hostess and lover for her visitor, Odysseus. But Miller doesn't stop there, those instances are barely the beginning. She has crafted such a deeply personal story for Circe, redefining and reclaiming this secondary character who is incredibly integral to the other stories and episodes, and allowing her to find her own way and tell her own story.

"The thought was this: that all my life had been murk and depths, but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it."

From uncertain childhood, Circe cannot find her footing — she cannot find her place or feel herself out. She does not see herself in her mother, and tries to find herself in her father, but after yearning for love from Helios and finding none, she first finds devotion for a short time in her younger brother, Aeëtes, whom she raises for the brief moment that her kind are babies and children. Miller delivers several moments like this early play at love and motherhood that develop Circe's deep empathy, which puts her at odds with her kind — immortals who have no concept of true suffering or loss. But no moment brings young Circe closer, for the reader and for herself, than the moment when she approaches the tortured Prometheus and offers him nectar, before he is taken away to his rock. She has watched his lashing, during all of which he remained silent. And then when the hall was empty she approached him tentatively and offers him nectar, which he accepts and thanks her for her kindness.

"I did not know if I was kind, I felt I did not know anything. He spoke carefully, almost tentatively, yet his treason had been so brazen. My mind struggled with the contradiction. Bold action and bold manner are not the same."

From the beginning, Miller ties Circe's story with something akin to Prometheus' — empathy and compassion and a pull toward the mortals. She is unable to name it at the time, but her feeling of otherness, her well of emotions that her family lacks and she finds lacking in them, begins early on but it really electrifies into life for her after this visit with Prometheus. She ventures to defy them by offering this traitor nectar — she is scared and thrilled by her daring. But she is young and it takes her a while to learn. Miller allows Circe's story to develop as the tale itself unfolds and Circe learns through error and pain, guilt and anguish — like a mortal.

"How many times would I have to learn? Every moment of my peace was a lie, for it came only at the gods' pleasure. No matter what I did, how long I lived, at a whim they would be able to reach down and do with me what they wished."

But above all else, this is so delightfully a woman's tale that could easily have been the true tale all along — hidden and disguised by the men who used to have the only pleasure in being allowed to tell it. How many other powerful women in history have been stripped of their name, of their place in the story by having to stand back in the shadows and be defined by the men who deign to visit them? Yes, this was reshaped by Miller to accommodate this new facet to an old story, but I never felt anything was sacrificed in this retelling. In fact, I thought so much was gained by Miller's ability to weigh and control the contours of this creation of hers — molded from the clay fragments of others' offerings. She seamlessly brings together the Olympians, the Titans, the mortals, and all the things between and tales both familiar and not.

"I know how lucky I am, stupid with luck, crammed with it, stumbling drunk."

And Miller brings her fascinating ability to make all these tales and characters completely accessible to an audience of today. The response to this and her (one!) previous book is astounding. Not only does their popularity speak volumes about the timelessness of these tales and how hungry people are for their continued value, but for Miller's skill in creating a new way to read them. A new angle from which to approach them. I cannot wait for her next. — I will not be afraid this next time to usurp the hype and dive right in at the date of publication.

Audiobook, as narrated by [a:Perdita Weeks|17929068|Perdita Weeks|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png]: Beautifully performed — with a voice as perfectly suited to this story as was [a:Frazer Douglas|5804755|Frazer Douglas|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png] for the [b:The Song of Achilles|11250317|The Song of Achilles|Madeline Miller|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1331154660l/11250317._SX50_.jpg|16176791] audiobook. Weeks gave such depth and timelessness to these words — wonderfully conveying the ancient quality of the story we know its origins to be and yet bringing forth the brilliant contemporary aspects that Miller manages to weave into her story as though she herself had a loom from Daedalus. I would absolutely listen to another performance from Weeks.